The sun burns quietly
The thin air resists the drag
From our nostrils
Turns into a bold, searing wind
Blasting past like unseen ships
Weaving through the white columns and peaks.
It’s no red carpet
This dusty trail.
I treat each step
Like a piece of snack
I draw and bite into
Till I empty the bag
Before it empties me
As I slowly ascend
Pulling away from the valley floor.
The white fury of the river
Is now silenced by the distance
Then all I hear is a Himalayan hymn.
© Chan Joon Yee
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